


A Medium Case of Culture Shock

by Roga



Category: Clan Mitchell - Fandom, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Clan Mitchell, F/M, Fic of Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-15
Updated: 2007-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet the Mitchells, 1994.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Medium Case of Culture Shock

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the girls who built the playground - ivorygates and synechdochic - and to [](http://blackmare.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://blackmare.livejournal.com/)**blackmare** 's invaluable help with Southern clan trivia, and also for letting me steal her art for the production of this story (link at the bottom). Originally posted in the [clanmitchell](http://clanmitchell.livejournal.com/) comm.

Cindy Lou's mama doesn't want her daughter dating Ash Mitchell.

She believes Cindy that he's a perfectly fine boy, strong and sweet and everything good, but she hasn't met him and she doesn’t intend to. Her mama knows they're not just dating, that it's been serious for a while now, and she tells Cindy she's angry which Cindy knows to mean she's scared. Mama had been pregnant with Cindy Lou's older brother when the black car had pulled up the driveway of the little house in Valparaiso, and she married a math teacher two years later who had enough memories from a year in Vietnam to never want to look back. She won't have Cindy marry no military boy.

But Cindy knows Mama understands better than anyone why she will marry Ash Mitchell -- if she does, and somewhere in her heart there's a deep quiet certainty that she will, even if they haven't talked about it - and she can stand to be patient in the meantime, until Mama comes around.

For now, though, Ash isn't welcome in the Stewart household, which is why they'll be spending Christmas with Ash's family -- which, if the stories are right, isn't so much a family as an extended, mythic tribe of vast proportions that rules over the western mountains of North Carolina, or at least that's how she's come to imagine it.

Cindy Lou is twenty one, a year younger than Ash. She's never had this kind of formal first meeting with a significant other's family before -- the only other boy she's ever been so serious about was her high school sweetheart, and she'd known Dave's family ever since she was a little girl. She sorely feels her lack of experience now, after they've driven all of seven hours from Tampa to Macon, and Ash laughs at her for sitting herself down in their little motel by the I-75 and plucking her eyebrows and doing her nails and shaving her legs, because "It's December in the Carolinas, Cin, who do you think's gonna be seeing your legs but me?" She pays him no heed, because when Cindy meets Ash's parents she is going to be presentable and she is going to be _prepared_.

Which is also the reason she makes Ash draw up a chart of the family tree, even if (she suspects) he makes up all the links he doesn’t remember, makes him retell the stories she's already heard a million times, trying hard to sort who’s who in her mind. Already questioned him about every little habit she can think of, from the Christmas weekend dress codes so she'd know what to pack, to the way their peculiar rotating gifting roster works, to family politics since World War II. And when she asks him about his father and he stills for a moment, says for the fifth time "You'll be fine" and "you don't have to try so hard", she looks him in the eyes and says, "You've been living with a double amputee your entire life, Ashton Mitchell, but I've never seen a man with no legs before, and when I see your father for the first time I'm afraid I'm gonna flinch, or stare, or do the absolutely wrong thing. So you need to tell me what to expect, how he wants to be treated, because otherwise I won't _know_ and I'm damned if I'm gonna mess this up."

Ash is one of the most emotionally intuitive people she’s ever met, always knowing how to act around people even if he can’t explain it in words. She’s not like him -- reads people like a book once she gets to know them, but never as naturally as Ash. And even if it wasn't phrased right, her meaning now gets through, which is mainly that she's far more wound up than she ought to be but she wants this to be _good_. So Ash takes her hand and tells her that his dad might still be a bit weak from the new prosthetics but Momma will fuss over him so much that the rest of the family won't need to, that on sunny days he plays cricket with the littler kids on the lawn with his crutches, and that he won't mind you asking and will be happy to tell you all about it, long as you time it right and ask in private so his story won't turn into dinner entertainment, not that anyone in the family would ever treat it as such.

Ash curls around her at night, and she studies his hand, squeezes and plays with his fingers like they're some kind of stress relief toy, and he's drowsy enough that he doesn't try to turn it into anything else, not tonight. I love you, he murmurs into the back of her neck, on the verge of sleep. _Doesn't matter what they think._

It's supposed to be reassuring and it's actually sweet he believes it, but Cindy knows that it's a big fat lie. Ash loves his family too much not to care what they think. She privately bets that any girl or boy the Mitchell clan outwardly disapproves of ends up on the curb faster than one of those jets they like flying around so much, and that the ones who are _silently_ disapproved of probably spend their lives keeping as far away from the hub as they can. Even if Ash only sees his family a few times a year, he'd never willfully separate himself from them.

She lets herself be comforted by this thought: that if Ash trusts his family so much, well, they must be trustworthy, and to earn Ash's respect they'd have had to trust his judgment right back. It's like a reflection caught between two mirrors, and if Ash's momma only wants what's best for him, well, so does she. Things might work out after all.

It's a five hour drive from Macon to Black Mountain if they take rest breaks and stop for lunch. They set off in the morning, taking turns at the wheel. Cindy's fine right up until they hit the twists and turns of the mountains, and suddenly cars are honking at her for being the slowest thing on the road, and Ash is laughing and shooing her into the passenger seat. "No more Florida, Toto."

No, she thinks, no more great big flat stretches of land; they're in mountain country now. Ash navigates the road easily, comfortably, and she lets her mind drift, sinking into the view of the countryside. This is where Ash grew up. These are the green hills and valleys that make up the memories of his youth, rows and rows of pines weighed down by heavy winter clouds. She wonders if this is where he'd like to settle down, if this is the land he sees in his future. She doesn't think she'd mind.

When the car starts slowing to a stop butterflies are fluttering all around her insides, and Ash is as near to bouncing on his feet as you can, sitting in a car. There are seven or eight other vehicles parked on a brown patch of ground by the house. She takes a deep breath. "Hey," Ash says. She turns to him, and before she can think he's got lips pressed against hers and a warm hand on her cheek, and she feels something inside her unclench. She opens her eyes to meet Ash's pale light blues, the ones that make him look like a red-eyed devil in photographs. Nothing but warmth in them now. "You're gonna love it here," he promises.

And then they’re carrying their bags to the front door (she carries her own; there’s a fine line between chauvinist and gentleman, and Ash walks it well), and Ash doesn’t bother knocking, just barges in and hollers, to her horror, “Anyone wants to meet Cindy Lou before she escapes, now’s the time.”

“Ashton,” she grits behind him, “I am going to _kill_ you,” and suddenly she’s surrounded by a group of -- and that’s strange, they’re all _children_ , and Ash has already got a little girl under one arm and a toddler trying to climb him from behind. These kids move fast.

The girls are Anna and Carly and Mary Beth and Abigail, and the boys are Ricky and Matthew and Jake, introducing one another so in sync that she half expects them to line up like the Von Trapps and burst into song. The oldest two (fourteen, she guesses) are standing a way back, not looking embarrassed to hang around the little kids at all, and introduce themselves as Spencer and Skipper, “But we’re only gonna say it once so you better remember who’s who,” and one of the girls (Carly?) beckons her down and whispers, “If you can’t tell them apart by the end of the weekend Gran’ma’s gonna be real mad,” and someone adds, “Aunt Susan’s last boyfriend couldn’t and Gran’ma _kicked him out._ ”

“All right, that’s enough,” Ash says, setting the boys down and shooing them away. She’s pretty sure she saw him wink. “You know they’re joking, right?”

Cindy Lou’s still a little overwhelmed, but she already figured this is some kind of family ritual – the children charging the initial wave of attack, adults probably waiting for the second round, and if Ash didn’t think they were being fair enough he wouldn’t still be grinning. “You used to be one of these kids, didn’t you.”

“Worse,” he admits. He picks up his bags again (one is his, the other’s full of gifts). “Come on,” he says, walking backwards far enough for her to automatically start following, “let’s find Momma and discover who she rented my room out to this time, and where we’re gonna be sleeping -- Sam!”

There’s real delight in his voice, and the woman chopping onions in the kitchen looks up, a little red-eyed, and breaks into a smile. “Ash,” she says affectionately, wipes her hands on a towel and her jeans and meets him in the middle of the room for a hug. She looks genuinely happy to see him.

“Cindy, this is Sam Carter, a friend of Cam’s,” Ash says when they break apart. “Sam, this is Cindy Lou. Sam’s the only reason anybody invites Cam over anymore. Anywhere, really.”

Sam rolls her eyes at Cindy. “Don’t listen to him. I tag along because of the...” Sam searches for the right word, then smiles. “Stay here one day, and you’ll see.” She’s leaning against the center island, playing with the knife she was using earlier casually between her fingers -- military, Cindy guesses. The kitchen itself is the biggest Cindy’s ever seen, with bowls of ingredients and colorful vegetables and ready-to-be-filled dishes all scattered around, in a bizarrely organized kind of mess. Sam looks completely at home.

“Are you stationed with Cameron?” Cindy asks. Cameron’s been in Bosnia for the past six months.

“Used to be,” Sam replies, a bit wistful. “But I work in DC these days.”

“Did you two get in together?” Ash asks, his eyes searching the kitchen like he expects Cameron to pop out of a drawer or the fridge any minute now. “He here anywhere? Gotta make sure I’m still the pretty one.”

It’s cute, the way he’s almost trying to hide his excitement behind bravado. Cindy can feel his anticipation radiating in waves. “You should save your jokes about your brother for when he can actually hear them,” she says.

“Oh, I got plenty left,” he smirks.

“Well, actually, Cam arrived this morning,” Sam says, “but he crashed into bed a couple of hours ago. He was pretty exhausted from traveling.”

Ash is a little disappointed, yes, but mostly relieved to hear his brother really is safe and home. Cindy knows they don’t talk a lot; Cam sends letters and phones maybe once a month, and the rest of the time Ash relies on his mother and the grapevine, military and otherwise, for information. “Okay,” he says, “I think we’ll go look for Momma before she finds out we were here a full ten minutes before saying hi.”

“She’s in the laundry room,” Sam says helpfully. “Something about more sheets.”

“Catch up with you later, then,” he grins; Cindy tells Sam it was nice meeting her, and then they’re in the living room, or at least one of them, because Cindy’s starting to think this house is even bigger inside than it looks on the outside. There’s a big fire crackling in the hearth, a thick red carpet and a Christmas tree, lit up and twinkling, and Ricki and Abigail (she thinks) on the floor and two uncles who peer at her with amusement beneath thick eyebrows, and she can almost hear them thinking, _fresh meat_. Ash promises to give her the full tour later -- he’s really burning to see his momma -- and she starts to follow, but a piece of art hanging by window catches her eye.

It’s a painting of an airplane gliding over a river under night skies -- but no, she looks more closely, not a painting but a real toy airplane suspended from the frame by thin red wire, a tiny USAF logo printed delicately on the peeling orange paint of its wings. The frame itself is scraps of wood and winding copper wire, something that looks like an old ornate brass knocker, a string of bells framing it from the side. Each element on its own would be nothing but a piece of old junk, but there’s a soothing sort of harmony in the way they’re composed together. “It’s beautiful,” she blurts without thinking.

“Ash, did you put her up to this?”

The voice comes from directly behind her, and the first thing she thinks is that Ash must have picked up his knack for stealth much earlier than his official military training. She turns around. Ash is standing just behind his mother, hands raised innocently, looking like _I didn’t do anything_ is right on the tip of his lips. “Swear I didn’t.”

“Mrs. Mitchell,” Cindy says softly. There’s no mistaking her. She’s about a head shorter than Ash, different nose and mouth and eyes, but their postures are identical, standing tall and proud, she’s got that same piercing stare he wears sometimes: like she’s seeing straight into your heart and nothing but, and at the same time meticulously aware of every single thing that’s going on in the room.

It feels, in a way, like a moment of truth. Not a time to forget her manners. “You’ve got a beautiful home,” Cindy says.

Mrs. Mitchell’s looking at her with inquisitive eyes. “The toy used to belong to the boys,” she says out of nowhere, but a glance indicates the picture Cindy was admiring a moment ago. “Cam would throw it out the window to see how far it could fly, and Ash would run out to the yard and fetch it for him. Found it in the bushes a few years ago.”

Cindy can fill in the missing pieces in her mind: the entire picture is all odds and ends from the household history, a step away from being thrown out before they were salvaged to create this piece, each one carrying a story, a memory. Mrs. Mitchell probably made it herself.

“I did not _fetch_ ,” Ash protests, smile playing on his lips. “I was _making sure_ the pilot was okay.”

“I guess not much has changed in twenty years,” Mrs. Mitchell sighs, and never having even met Cameron, Cindy has to agree, and murmurs, “You’ve got two pretty damn crazy boys,” because, well, one flies planes at near body-ripping speeds, and the other jumps off them. It’s still undecided which of them is crazier.

And Mrs. Mitchell says, “Well, come here, Cindy Lou,” and pulls Cindy into a brief embrace, and in just that short moment of physical contact Cindy suddenly realizes that Mrs. Mitchell isn’t waiting for her to prove herself worthy or pass some sort of test -- she’s a guest here, and she’s welcome, and it’s as simple as that. Whether or not she’ll be here for the long run, there will be no judgment here, not now.

Like a stone’s lifted off her chest, she feels lighter, somehow, knowing that. Ash sweeps his mother into a hug after her, and when he lets go he slips a hand into Cindy’s. “We’ll just put our stuff in whatever room you’re puttin’ us in,” he says, “and come down to the kitchen.”

“Hold on,” Mrs. Mitchell says, “let me look at you for a moment.”

Ash sighs, but doesn’t say a word, like he’s used to it. Mrs. Mitchell studies him, looking like she’d strip him down and inspect for broken bones and bruises if she could. “You’re getting your room,” she says finally. “Travis’s sister just had the baby, so he and Lorena decided to spend the holidays with his family in Texas.”

Ash grins brightly at the news (and for all that Ash loves her and loves his base and his work, Cindy doesn’t think she’s ever seen him smile so wide so often as he has in this house, and they’ve only just arrived; he seems infinitely more relaxed than his normally sardonic self), and they head upstairs.

She gets scarcely five minutes to explore (and snoop around) in Ash’s old bedroom before there’s a knock on the door, and it’s as if that knock was a signal for time to start speeding because and from then on the day flies by so fast she can barely keep up with her own self. One of the kids drags them downstairs again, where Ash is absolutely required to referee game of jackstraws of which he is apparently champion, and on the way they duck into the den to say hello to Ash’s dad and aunts and uncles who are all _delighted_ to finally meet the _famous_ Cindy Lou who managed, rumor has is, to make Ash eat his greens (and nobody really needs to know the incentives she used to accomplish the feat, she thinks), and pepper her with questions about school (yeah, USF’s amazing and the PoliSci program is good) and Tampa (Buccaneers not doing great, but there’s hope for next year -- there’s always hope for next year…) and how she met Ash (that Thai place over by MacDill, which at least half of them apparently recognize). Every word she puts in starts up three other conversations simultaneously and she does her best to keep up, and Ash has his hand in hers or round her waist the entire time which is nice and grounding, but he seems more amused than inclined to help her out, the little bastard. (Meeting Mr. Mitchell is, at least, anticlimactic; it’s only after twenty minutes of conversation that she even remembers to look around for crutches.)

She’s finally rescued by Mrs. Mitchell who needs help in the kitchen, a place they both know Ash should stay out of for the public welfare, and it’s a different kind of chaos, of chopping and slicing, kneading, washing, boiling, cooking, spicing, tasting, all with a constant stream of conversation and children running underfoot, and every now and then Mrs. Mitchell going out to greet another guest who’s just arrived. Halfway through her key lime pie -- Cindy’s mama’s recipe, at her own insistence -- Cameron Mitchell saunters through the door, refreshed, recharged, and charmed to meet her. He slides into place opposite Sam on the counter, as naturally as if he was there every other day, and starts working on a strip of bacon for the green beans. “So, Cindy Lou,” he drawls, not looking at her as he grinds raw salt with a handheld mill. “My little boy treatin’ you okay?”

She considers the question. “When he’s not always making me pay for dinner and cheating on me with the base floozies, you mean? Sure.”

Cameron looks up, not quite startled.

“I appreciate the thought,” she clarifies, “but I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

His head dips in acknowledgment, eyes crinkling in the corners -- _gotcha, backing off_ \-- and he deftly turns the conversation around to Sam, who rolls her eyes and blushes when he proudly informs Cindy that not only is she the youngest person working on some hush hush government project in the Pentagon, but she’s getting her Ph.D. in astrophysics while she’s at it, and every year they have to make a special pot of grits just to feed her brain. His voice is soft, teasing, but it’s pretty obvious he worships the ground she walks on.

Then Ash blows into the room and stands stock still, staring at Cameron, like he can’t decide whether to punch or tackle him. “You’re up,” he states.

“That I am,” Cameron agrees.

Ash crosses his arms. “And you couldn’t have, oh I don’t know, stopped to say hello?”

Cam (and there it is, she’s started thinking of him as _Cam_ ) wipes his hands with a towel, just a little guiltily. “I really did wake up ten minutes ago. Thought you’d gravitate toward the kitchen eventually--“

“You and me,” Ash cuts in, self-controlled, “Outside. Now.” His stare makes pretty damn obvious his opinion of what Cam _thought_. “Got a few things to catch up on, don’t we.”

Cam starts to grin, throws the towel down on the counter. “We’ll just be having a few words then,” he says, following Ash out, to which Mrs. Mitchell responds by rolling her eyes and tossing “Be careful” at their heels.

Cindy doesn’t fully understand why the warning until she finds them both half an hour later, wet and shivering and dripping all over the back porch. Her eyes widen. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Threw him in the creek,” they say at exactly the same time.

Cindy stares, not knowing what to say. She’s used to Ash being reckless, but for God’s sake this is his time _off_. She’s surprised the creek even has flowing water, at these temperatures. Then again, maybe it doesn’t. “Ash, you _idiot_.” He has the decency to look a little embarrassed; Cameron’s expression is almost identical. “It’s _freezing_ out there.”

“We noticed,” Cam says.

“Well, get your shoes off or you’ll get mud all over your momma’s carpet, and get in already,” she says irritably, holding the door open with a hand on her hip.

The look they exchange between them is indecipherable, but Cam looks like he’s a moment away from snickering and Ash looks just a little bit terrified and she doesn’t care: if Ash doesn’t get his ass inside and into some dry clothes _right now_ (no matter _how_ adorable he looks with that dirt smudge on his cheek and water on his eyelashes and his brother hovering almost protectively at his side), she’ll haul him in herself and stick him in front of the fireplace in his underwear.

They go inside, though – shoes off, as ordered – and it’s hard not to notice the way they avoid the kitchen on their way up, one brother looking over his shoulder as the other grabs towels from a hall closet, and just as impossible to miss Mrs. Mitchell sticking her head out of the kitchen for that one brief moment the boys weren’t looking, resignation or amusement (or maybe both) in her eyes. One more, Cindy catalogues, in a long line of unspoken rituals.

Dinner speeds by in the same rush of noise and energy that seems to fill everything and everyone who enters this house. Dinner’s also where she meets Ash’s grandma for the first time (and she still can’t quite believe she’s meeting the legendary _Gran’ma Mitchell_ \-- Ash’s friends from the base had asked her to take a photograph, just to prove she’s real, and Cindy’s actually heard rumors that her first name is a treasured family secret, revealed only after wedlock.)

Later, people linger in the living room and front porch, with ice cream and mugs of hot spiced apple cider, talk about friends, neighbors, family, slowly trickling off to bed. Out on the porch the air smells of wood smoke and snow and that tangy apple-cinnamon-clove scent that’s wafting from the drinks, welcome and soothing. Cindy’s snuggled next to Ash on a low cushioned bench, holding a soft conversation with his cousin Susan, when she starts noticing his head keeps dropping on her shoulder. It’s been a long, exhausting day, and there are three more to go; it’s time to turn in for the night.

She doesn’t know what time it is when she wakes up. She remembers snapshots of her dream -- being chased by an entire tribe of Mitchells who all look like the twins and are all named George, all wanting something from her and Ash nowhere to be found -- but it’s already fading away, and Ash is sleeping safe beside her. Still, the dream leaves her vaguely unsettled as she tries to fall back asleep. She closes her eyes, burrowing under the covers. Waits. Waits some more. But the night’s too quiet, muffled by snow and utterly still like the nights you sing about in Christmas carols that never make it to the city, and the room’s pitch black, no light pollution faintly filtering through the shades, and the shape of Ash’s back is familiar but everything else is not.

A few minutes later she gives up and gets out of bed, treading the floor carefully so as not to wake Ash up. It’s 3 AM, she finally sees in the clock in the hallway. If she makes herself a cup of tea, she’ll still have a good few hours of sleep left later, and maybe she’ll remember how to be tired again.

On her way to the kitchen she sees the small light on in the living room. When she peeks inside she’s surprised to see Sam there, sitting cross legged by a low coffee table, head bent over a thick block of paper she’s scribbling on. “Hi,” Cindy says.

Sam looks up, startled, before her face shifts to sympathetic. “Hey,” she says softly. Her hair’s mussed up and flat in the back; she looks like she’s gotten out of bed too. “Can’t sleep?”

Cindy makes a vague hand wave, feeling weirdly like she’s just stayed up all night cramming with her roommate. She shakes her head. “Whatcha doing?”

Sam puts her pen down and flips the block over, looking kind of embarrassed. “I had an idea, I had to write it down.”

“How long you been up?” Cindy asks. There are at least twenty pages of hastily scrawled calculations on the floor. She’s starting to get where the jokes about Sam’s brain were coming from.

Sam checks her watch. Her eyes widen. “Two hours.” She puts one hand on the sofa behind her and pushes herself up to her feet. “Okay, I think I need to take a break.”

“I was just about to get a cup of tea,” Cindy offers.

Sam grins. “I’m surprised you’re not sick of having company everywhere yet.”

Cindy’s always been pretty good at guessing where everything in a kitchen is, so when they get there she reaches straight for mugs and teabags while Sam boils water in an old fashioned metal kettle, identical to Mama’s. “So,” Sam starts conversationally, “you seem to be doing well here.”

“Do I,” Cindy says. Her wording makes Cindy feel a bit like she has all day when people stared at her too much, like an animal in a zoo. ‘Watch the female Stewart, as it attempts to successfully integrate into its new mate’s tribe, with holiday offerings and key lime pie.’

“I’ve seen worse cases of Mitchell shock,” Sam says lightly (it’s almost a scientific term, _Mitchell shock_ ), pouring water into the mugs, steam swirling up into her face, and she waves it away. “I was one. The first time I was here, it took Cam hours to pull me out of the room. And I actually fell for that Spence and Skipper trick, back when they used to dress identically to fool the new guys.” She glances up at Cindy, quirks an eyebrow, and Cindy smiles back, trying to convey, _no, I wasn’t fooled by the twins, I never thought there’d be actual consequences for not telling them apart. At all._ She pointedly ignores her dream.

But Sam doesn’t look like she needs and convincing. She looks like she gets it. More than anyone else currently in this house can, more than Ash, who knows Cindy down to her favorite Thai takeout dishes and what CNN pundits she will and will not trust, but doesn’t know what _this_ feels like, _here_. “They’re... incredible,” she finds herself saying. “These people. Overwhelming, and loud, and… all over the place.”

Sam smiles, handing Cindy one mug, and sits herself down on the one of the high stools by the island. Cindy settles on a stool next to her. “You come from a small family?” Sam asks.

“One brother,” Cindy replies, thinking of Scott and of quiet Christmas morning at home, overstocked red socks hanging neatly over a fireplace they never lit, stacks of pancakes just for four, plenty of air to breathe. “He lives in New York now, with his wife. My parents still live in Tampa.”

“I have a brother too,” Sam says, but the distant way she says it says it all. The Mitchells haven’t just adopted Sam; she’s adopted the Mitchells as well.

They sit in peaceful quiet for a while, sipping their drinks. The kitchen’s warm, and the tea is sweet. Cindy can feel herself starting to relax again. She’ll be able to sleep again, soon, and Sam’s company is comforting.

Cindy finally breaks the silence by asking, “So, you and Cam?” because she hasn’t quite managed to pick up what was going on there, and then feels awful when Sam nearly chokes on her tea. But Sam holds up a pacifying hand, saying, “No, no, it’s okay. I should be used to that by now. But no. We wouldn’t… no.” She shakes her head firmly.

“Okay,” Cindy says, and hides a smile behind a sip of tea. She believes Sam, and she isn’t about to judge whether someone she’s known for half a day is protesting too much. She can’t help but add, “I’m just sayin’, you could get yourself some fine hand knit accessories if you stick with him.”

(One cool evening two weeks after they’d met, Ash had arrived to pick her up wearing a black knitted cap, even though spring was just dissolving into summer. “My brother knit it for me,” he’d said plainly, “promised I’d wear it at least once before it got too hot,” and that was kind of the moment she’d fallen in love with him.)

Sam doesn’t blink at the reference. She just grins, lifts the bottom fold of her pajama pants like she’s sharing a secret. She’s wearing a pair of yellow knitted socks. “Oh, I’m well taken care of.”

Her eyes are twinkling, meeting Cindy’s own, but suddenly her expression changes, grows more serious, intense, and she completely surprises Cindy by saying, “Everyone can see Ash is head over heels, you know, which is more than enough for these kin.” Cindy’s heart is suddenly beating faster. There’s something matter-of-fact in Sam’s tone that makes her words sound like raw honesty, like it’s simply a fact. “Not that I can tell myself, I’ve only met Ash a few times, but Cam told me, after their conversation today by the creek. He reassures me Ash is ‘smitten as a pilot with his first T-38 Talon’,” --she smirks at this-- “which, if you know Cam, actually means a lot. Besides, Momma likes you. Even I can see that.”

There’s a short pause, and Cindy doesn’t quite know what to say; Sam’s gaze is full of strength and encouragement. “Just thought you might like to hear it out loud.”

A warm feeling washes over her that has nothing to do with the tea, and Cindy blinks a couple of times. “Thank you,” she says, and the words echo in her mind, never mind that she already knew them. _Head over heels_ , and _Momma likes you_. There’s no rational reason for Sam’s affirmation to mean as much as it does, but Cindy accepts it, and Sam nods, looking pleased, lifting her mug up for a last sip.

Cindy tries to smile, except her smile becomes a yawn, and a few minutes later the cups have been washed and dried, Sam’s working in her living room/study, and Cindy’s back in Ash’s room. She climbs into bed gently, trying not to wake him up, but she feels him stir anyway. “Cin?”

She slides her arms around him from behind, pressing her body as close to him as she can. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He’s more than half asleep, but still manages to mumble, “Everything okay?”

When she starts thinking about the long term -- and she’s not really, but if she were -- well, there’s a reason Mama doesn’t like the idea of Ash Mitchell, and that reason terrifies her. And she knows that having Ash Mitchell for the long run will probably mean, sometimes, not having him around at all. And the closest thing she might have during those times will be his family, with his momma and Uncle George and his second cousin twice removed’s father-in-law, and his grandma that nobody knows the name of, except it doesn’t matter, because anyone who’s anyone just calls her _Gran’ma_ anyway. And crazily enough, it seems like not a bad family to join.

But she’s not thinking long term, not yet, no use thinking about long absences just the thought of makes her heart hurt when he’s with her, right here, right now. “Everything’s okay,” she says softly. “I’m here. Sleep.”

“M’kay,” he sighs, but shifts, rolls on his back and pulls her so that she’s half on top of him, and his arm’ll fall asleep by morning if they stay that way. But her head is resting on his chest, and she can hear his heart beat, and feel him breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> [This](http://pics.livejournal.com/blackmare_9/pic/0000rakh/) is Momma's piece of salvage art described in the fic. And thanks, again, to [](http://synecdochic.livejournal.com/profile)[**synecdochic**](http://synecdochic.livejournal.com/) and [](http://ivorygates.livejournal.com/profile)[**ivorygates**](http://ivorygates.livejournal.com/) :-) 


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